Lyrics

AT THE POTTER’S WHEEL
 My Father would sculpt bones 
Spin soft Earth  
Follow his circular wheel kneading its creation 
A ballet of clay and flesh with it’s familiar  browns and greys
 His trail of smoke rising — Marking the end of day  
It’s how I remember him — A subtle longing 
His samovar hissing — His union smock removed
 Tired bones folded — The sweet smell of brew 
Watching him drift
Sparring with sleep 
The invasion of night.

For my Father 
©Fredrick Brooks 
Painting Ruth Read 
From The Quarterly 2013